Window Panes
by xMeredy
Summary: He has always chosen her. Always. "Travis," she says weakly. "I'm dating your brother." It's just that she had never chosen him.


**Window Panes  
**Travis has always loved Katie. Always. It's just that she never loved him back.

* * *

**Travis.**  
Right then, he hardly cares. Not when he finally has Katie in his arms. There is no right or wrong to this situation. It had gotten far too out of hand, past all rationality and sensibility. There is only the fact that she seems to fit in his hold and nothing else.

"Travis," she says weakly, but she does not pull away. Her actions betray her, but her words still hold a certain degree of truth. "Travis. I'm dating your brother."

...

He wrenches his coat out of the closet. Tugs on the sleeves and buttons up the front. Katie appears at the doorway. She holds herself together, like she's afraid she'll fall apart. Like she's afraid of corruption when she's already tainted. He raises his head, taking in her disheveled clothes and messy hair with narrowed eyes.

And yet, he still thinks she's beautiful.

"I'm sorry," she says. She looks up at him, hopeful and expectant. She's waiting for him to say it's okay. That he didn't know what he was doing. That it was the alcohol, not him. Never him.

He stares back at her with a mask of indifference. His eyes are bloodshot and bleary, almost as if _he_ were the one crying. As if _he_ were the one falling apart. He is so screwed up right now. His head is screwed up and his heart is screwed up and he doesn't give a damn about the world.

He knows there's a just answer. That there's something he can say to wipe that tormented expression off of her face. It would be what Connor would do, but he isn't Connor. Besides, he has the right to be selfish sometimes. Playing the nice guy is too much of a burden if it involves telling lies. There is no kindness in dishonesty.

So all he says is, "Don't fucking apologize if you don't mean it," and he's out the door.

He doesn't stop to look back to see her reaction. It's not that he regrets what he's done – which is probably the worst thing he can admit. It was refreshing, actually, to be able to act on impulse. Rather, he does not want more reminders of what he isn't: He isn't the guy to make her happy. He sighs heavily, watching his breath puff out in circles before him.

The streets are covered in white flakes of winter cold. He's realized he left his gloves in the apartment, and the cold gnaws at his bare fingers – sharp and chilling. He shoves his hands into his pocket in an attempt to warm his cold body. To hide the mad trembling of his fingers. He diverts his attention to the crowds of people trucking through the snow. They walk, talking softly amongst themselves as they leave tracks in the snow. He follows behind them, heading up the road away from this place.

He does not make his own footsteps, but traces after those footsteps that have already been made. Trying to fit into the spaces that have already been laid out before him.

He finds that sometimes his feet are too small, other times too big. There is never a perfect fit. No footprint that matches his own. Only trails left behind by other people. Abandoned memories lost in the snow.

**Connor.**  
He takes a long sip of hot chocolate out of his cup, almost burning his tongue in the process. The touch of the warm cup in his hands sends a tingly feeling up his arms, leaving goosebumps dotting his skin. He breathes out steam and watches it circle around his face. It makes him laugh, softly and quietly to himself.

The sound of the wheels rolling over the train tracks is almost rhythmic. The constant _ch-chunk, ch-chunk, ch-chunk_, sounding from below his seat is reassuring. He tilts his head back so that it brushes over the window. He can feel the cold seeping in through the glass, but he doesn't mind. It is cold for now, but he can bear with the cold.

He finishes his hot chocolate and tosses the paper cup into the trash. He shifts around in his seat so that he can look at the scenery out the window. There is something magical about the white snow on the ground. Something pure and wholesome about it. He had always admired the snow, admired how pretty it looked piled up on the concrete.

A snowmobile zooms past, shredding up snow and leaving black tire tracks in them. Well. It looked pretty until someone came around and messed it up he supposes.

He remembers days of running out in the snow; sometimes with Travis, sometimes with Katie. Those were happy days, carefree days. Maybe that's why he likes the snow so much: because they bring him back to blissful memories.

He smiles softly to himself, wondering what surprises are hiding under the snow. Wondering what's in store for him in the days to come. Wondering what awaits him in the promise of spring.

**Katie.**  
She watches the cold condensate frosty shapes onto the bedroom window. It obscures her vision of the world, putting a film over what is really there. Reality hidden from sight. Still, even through the translucent glass, she can make out his retreating back from below. It's not something she can forget easily.

It has never occurred to her that he had grown up so quickly until she sees that back – broad and lengthy and strong. That is not the same figure that she remembers from her younger years. It's strange how ignorance can alter parts of your memory like that. Can cause her to pay less attention to her surroundings, become so warped in her own selfish needs that she paid no heed to Travis.

Paid no heed to his pain, to all his longtime suffering. She worries what else she has missed? What else is there, hiding in the snow, that she never uncovered because she was too busy looking at its pretty cover? Too busy sinking into the surreal happiness surrounding her.

She traces circles onto the window, her finger freezing under its touch. It drags across the glass in staggered moments.

She can hardly believe what has happened. How she let it happened. When did she become so weak?

She hates being fragile, so she swallows back the choked sobs, even if it's frustrating to push them away. Even if it rips at her throat to push away the overwhelming pain swelling in her chest.

She presses her hand up against the window as if she can reach out and pull him back to her, her hand zinging with cold. The snowfall blankets the world in white, concealing the grey of blemish under its wake.

She fears what will happen when it all melts.

* * *

I know, verrrry depressing - I apologize. I've wanted to write a Tratie story ever since I started reading Cap'NCupcake's Tratie fics, but me being not nearly as funny couldn't think of anything D: So I resorted to angst! And depressing stories! Yay!

As of now, I have a few plans of continuing this story but as of now it's just a one-shot. I suppose if a lot of people are interested I'll keep going.

Presumably, I am not The Rick Riordan, so I do not own anything.

Thanks for reading!


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